Learning the Ropes
by Scribbler
Summary: [one shot] Pre canon. The story behind Raimundo's medallion, and maybe an explanation for why he wears it when he does.


**Disclaimer:** Not mine, except for the bits that are.

**A/N:** Another Xiaolin childhood. This one was more difficult to write, but that's because the Raimundo we first meet in canon is a bit of a git, so writing his childhood often turned to writing his incipient inner-git. Hopefully I've got the balance right for this stage of his life. I always believed his attitude was three parts personality and two parts raging teenage hormones.

**Continuity:** Pre-canon.

**Feedback:** Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!

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_**Learning the Ropes**_

© Scribbler, January 2007.

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"No, no, _no_, Raimundo! Flick your wrists out or you'll miss."

"Yes, sir."

John Pedrosa regarded his son through narrowed eyes. "Up, boy. Straight-backed. Don't lock your knees."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't bother, Poppa, he'll never get it right." Patchouli tipped her narrow hips to make her new leotard skirt sparkle in the sunshine. She had her father's aquiline nose, and raised it, sniffing at Raimundo's efforts.

Raimundo scowled. "Will too."

She rolled her eyes. "You've been practising all _day_. How many times have you got it right so far?"

"Patchouli, stop bothering your brother. Raimundo, I said _don't_ lock your knees!" John barked.

Raimundo snapped to attention. His fingers twitched as though he was a hairsbreadth from saluting his father, but instead he raised his left leg and powered into another cartwheel. He flew across the grass in ways most six-year-olds could only dream of, as he twisted into a flick-flack and landed on one of two wooden posts that John had driven into the ground like stakes. Between the posts was strung a low tightrope. Balanced on one hand, Raimundo bent his elbow in preparation to launch his entire body backwards into the air. The aim was to land feet-first in the centre of the rope; doing so without falling off was the trick of it. However, just as it had every time before, his elbow buckled at the crucial moment and he went sprawling before he even had chance to try balancing on the rope itself.

He sat up, spitting out grass, and caught his father's eye. Instantly his gaze dropped.

"Told you," Patchouli crowed. "You can't do _nothing_ right, Rai."

"Shut up, Patchouli."

"Rai-baby, Rai-baby, nothing but a cry-baby," she singsonged.

"Patchouli!" John snapped. "Go back to the caravan."

"But Poppa - "

"_Now_, Patchouli."

She grumbled, but left. She was second-youngest, but Patchouli adored teasing _all _her brothers and sisters, often cruelly. Yet even she had sense enough to do as she was told when he used that tone.

After he'd watched to make certain she shut the door behind her, John turned back to his son.

Raimundo had made no effort to rise. Instead, he sat with his knees drawn up to his chest. He cut a pretty pathetic figure, with grass stains on his face and mud peppering his overlarge training clothes. The Pedrosas were a big family, and getting bigger. Hand-me-downs were a way of life.

John snorted loudly. "You'll not get far in life if you let a few setbacks keep you down."

Raimundo didn't look up. John heard a stifled sniff.

John snorted again and turned on his heel. He had no time for self-indulgence; not when there was work to be done. Raoul had asked him earlier for help cleaning the lion cages, but John had put him off so he could spend time on Raimundo's training. The boy was good, but didn't push himself enough without someone to chivvy him. If the boy was going to waste his time, however, then Raoul's cat mess would settle his afternoon instead. John was not the kind of man who cajoled an awkward child into working. If Raimundo couldn't see the importance for himself, then John would leave him alone until he realised it.

He was just rounding the corner of the caravan when he nearly ran into a round lump covered in floral print. It preceded a ruddy-faced woman whose gaze was hard as diamonds, and whose folded arms held more sternness than a barrel of schoolteachers. She glared at John and clicked her tongue.

"You're just going to leave the boy there?"

"Don't start with me, Juanita."

"I'll start whatever I please. And it pleases me to say that you, John Pedrosa, are nothing but a big bully."

"What?"

She gestured wildly. "Raimundo has been trying his best all afternoon, and all you can do is criticise. You don't even defend him against his sister."

"He has to learn that he can't just give up and cry - "

"Hush your mouth. Patchouli was way out of line."

"I sent her inside!"

"But you didn't reprimand her. What do you think that's done for Raimundo's self-confidence? He's already self-conscious that we're not both teaching him the act like we did the others. He's a clever boy; he understands I can't prance about with a baby on the way, but he's also an _emotional_ child, and you are not playing to his _strengths_. Did you not notice his hands?"

John blinked. "What about his hands?"

"He's wearing gloves, John. Gloves." At his blank look she added, "In the middle of July? Didn't that strike you as odd?"

"Juanita, where our children are concerned, I've ceased to notice oddities." It was true. The Pedrosa brood were famous for pranks and idiosyncrasies. No other troupe kids poked at bee nests to make them emerge so they could be counted; and no other kids would _ever_ play chicken in the lion cage like his did. Compared to what his brothers and sisters were capable of, Raimundo wearing gloves in hot weather was practically _normal. _

Juanita raised her eyes to the sky. "Lord, give me strength. While the other children of the troupe went to town yesterday, Raimundo stayed to practise, ready for his session with you today. He didn't tell anyone, and couldn't find the chalk, so he practised bare-handed and rubbed his skin raw on the rope and the posts. His hands are covered in blisters, you silly man. It's no wonder he's having problems."

John narrowed his eyes and looked over his shoulder, but they were out of sight of anyone.

Juanita's clicking tongue made him look back at her. He loved his wife, but she was true circus stock: a healthy sense of wonder masked in no-nonsense sturdiness. He sometimes thought she'd been born with her arms folded, and learned to click her tongue before she could talk. Only her button nose evened out the plainness of her face. When she smiled she was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen, in or out of a spangly leotard.

"He only wants to impress you," she said now.

"He shouldn't be thinking of impressing me," John muttered gruffly. "He should be thinking about his place in the act this Autumn - "

"He's six years old, John."

John opened his mouth to answer … and then shut it again. He rubbed at the spot between his eyes and sighed. "I'll talk to the boy."

Juanita smiled and pecked his cheek. "You're a pigheaded man, John, but a good one." She massaged her swollen belly and huffed a little.

John was instantly alert. "Are you all right? Is the baby coming?"

"No, just kicking a little too roughly. I think he's going to be a soccer player like his brother."

John frowned. He didn't approve of Raimundo's soccer. None of his brothers and sisters liked it half so much, and certainly none of them would ever sneak away to play keepy-uppy instead of doing their chores. John thought it distracted the boy from his acrobatics training; in a few short months Raimundo would take his place as the youngest member of The Flying Pedrosas. There was already precious little time without him wasting it. While Juanita was pregnant her sister-in-law had taken her place, but Melisande disliked children and distanced herself from Raimundo's training. Therefore it had all been left up to John, and he didn't even consider reducing his regular responsibilities to compensate for doing the work of two people.

Juanita saw his frown and matched it. "He's _six_. He's a _child_, not a miniature adult. He still believes in the boogieman and the tooth fairy. He sleeps with a stuffed animal and sucks his thumb when he's frightened, and you … you don't acknowledge that. You expect him to be grown up already, like you were at his age, but things are different now than they were for you.The world is a different place. Justcut him a little slack. Trust him. Let him be good enough for you. He may surprise you."

John mumbled something that might have been an agreement, but then again might not, and went to find his son.

He didn't have to look far. Raimundo was still hunched by the tightrope, face pressed against his knees.

John knuckled down beside him. "Let me see your hands."

Raimundo looked up abruptly. "Sir?"

"Take your gloves off. Let me see your hands."

Raimundo scrubbed at his eyes and nose. He told people he had hay fever, but he was too young to explain away how it only appeared when he was upset or frustrated. He could be a slacker, but he worked hard to gain his father's approval.

John knew this, but he'd spent his life being sparing with his emotions. Circus life was hard. Spending half the year away from their village, the troupe had bonded into a loose sort of family. It helped against the suspicious stares of those who didn't trust circusfolk, rating them no better than gypsies and tinkers. Yet life on the road was unkind to those too soft to handle it, even with a close-knit company like theirs. As one of the troupe elders John was tougher than most. He'd grown up in a time when being part of the circus meant halving your childhood and being grown up before your voice broke. Even a little boy's trembling lip wasn't enough to relax the hard line of his mouth.

Raimundo pulled off his gloves and presented his hands knuckles upward.

John turned them over. The palms were indeed covered in angry looking weals. It was a miracle the boy had done as much as he had. No wonder he kept buckling under his own weight, trying to balance on welts like these.

"You should never practise on ropes or trapeze without chalk to protect your grip."

"Yes, sir."

"You can do serious damage by being so reckless."

"Yes, sir."

"I have some soft leather gloves you can borrow until you're healed. They're fingerless, so they should fit you. Until then …"

"Sir?" Raimundo had green eyes – Pedrosa eyes. John looked at them and wondered if his own had ever been that childish.

You'd think with all his children he'd have learned a little more about parenting, but no. Even after having done this before, he still got things wrong. It wasn't that John expected his children to grow up too fast, it was that his brain liked to ignore they were young at all. His own childhood was too far back to use as a benchmark. All he knew was how to be an adult; how to be John Pedrosa, husband, acrobat, and _man_. He was too rigid, he admitted, Juanita's voice echoing in his mind. He didn't bend easily.

Raimundo, on the other hand … he was made of something different than his father.

John was a born leader, able to make important decisions based on what was best for those around him. Nobody ever had to teach him to put his own needs last; to tuck away his feelings and make hard choices that nobody would thank him for.

He could see some of that in his son, but it was subsumed by a selfishness that made Raimundo want to be the favourite child, the chosen one amongst all his brothers and sisters. Raimundo just wanted to be loved, but he wanted to be loved blindly and unequivocally, with little effort made by himself. That was a dangerous thing in John's world – especially when the boy insisted on being so … _young_.

John took off his gold pendant and slipped it over Raimundo's head. He wasn't sure why he did it. It just seemed like the right thing to do in the situation. "This belonged to your grandfather, and his father before him. It's passed down six generations of Pedrosa fathers and sons. Don't lose it or trade it for gum."

Raimundo stared at the medallion with naked wonder. "You're … giving this to me?"

John grunted.

"Is it to bring me luck?"

"If you like."

Raimundo clutched it to his chest. "Thank you, sir. I'm sure I'll get it right now."

Another grunt. John got to his feet with the declaration of fetching the fingerless leather gloves from their caravan. Raimundo didn't answer, too busy staring at his new jewellery. The gold glinted off his face.

_Amazing_, John thought as he walked away. _It's not worth a thing. I didn't even attach a story to it; he just came up with something by himself. It's like he **needs **something 'magic' just to feel confident in his own abilities. What kind of fanciful lad …_

A strong breeze sprang up out of nowhere. John held down his beloved panama, but the breeze plucked it off anyway. He pounced after where it had landed behind a drum of confetti earmarked for the clowns' act – and there he paused.

Raimundo stood a short distance from the tightrope. The breeze ruffled his hair. John watched as, believing himself unwatched, Raimundo kissed the medallion and threw himself once more into his routine. He completed it flawlessly. On the second post, however, he twisted around and, instead of finishing on a flourish, added a bicycle kick like those he habitually used to trounce opponents in soccer games. Even though he was only small, there was enough power in that kick to dislocate someone's jaw.

Not even Patchouli, the most gifted Flying Pedrosa child, could've done that on injured hands. Patchouli would not have even considered ending with a kick. A kick was a fighting move, but somehow, against all expectation, Raimundo had infused it with a strange kind of grace.

John didn't clap. He just jammed his hat back on, stood up and called, "I told you not to practise without chalk!"

Raimundo flinched, caught unawares. "Uh … sir! Sorry, sir!" Satisfaction drained from his face like water from a leaky bucket.

John heard Juanita snap at him inside his head. "But …" he added, "well done."

Raimundo looked at him in surprise.

John nodded. No, it hadn't been a figment of his imagination.

His son's smile was like cool wind on a hot Summer's day.

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_**Fin.**_

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End file.
